


I Wanna (Hold Your Hand)

by beetle



Series: The Lost Boys [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair has no chill, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Lots of Alistair stammering and nervous laughter, M/M, Orphans, Past Rape/Non-con, Teen Pregnancy, Teen Romance, but not really, runaways - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 21:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11389056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Summary:Everyrunaway has their reasons. It’s notGeth’splace to judge, or even speculate. But in the case of the new boy, with the sea-blue eyes . . . Geth’s having difficulties keeping his customary façade of indifference and equanimity in place, and hisownreasons for running buried and in-check. Prompt in end notes.





	I Wanna (Hold Your Hand)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts), [ghostofshe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern, all-human AU. Implied past sexual assault of a teen and implied past consensual sex between teens.
> 
> (Also, fair warning, to the maybe three people who’re gonna bother reading this: This fic is ENTIRELY powered by a massive, moody Fiona Apple playlist. ENTIRELY. You’ve been warned. Don’t bring your ‘plaints and blubbering to me, in the aftermath. Or . . . y'know . . . DO.  
> ::points at comment box::)

 

The new boy kept _staring_ at him, and that was the only reason Geth even noticed him.

 

The _only_ reason.

 

It was a rainy night—like so many in the grimy, decrepit little Metropolis halfway between Nowhere-ville and East Who-Gives-a-Fuck—and there were three different crews in the two-story, abandoned warehouse, which sat on the southern outskirts of town.

 

Hawke and his lot were on the second floor, as were Cullen and his: no doubt glaring at each other across the vast space they shared, waiting for the other to make a move of some sort.

 

As far as Geth knew, _neither_ crew had any beef with each other, and their respective leaders, though given to posturing, worked hard to keep it that way.

 

On the first floor, which was the less desirable floor, due to more busted windows and thus more exposure to the elements, was the third “crew.”

 

Well, not so much a _crew_ , as a bunch of misfits who didn’t fit into _any_ of the gangs of runaways and delinquents that peopled the area.

 

They didn’t work or travel together but, on the semi-frequent occasions on which they shared a squat, they showed each other baseline consideration and respect . . . even looked out for each other, after a fashion.

 

The new boy probably knew that, or could sense it—he had thoughtful, intelligent eyes, the color Geth’d always imagined the sea to be . . . a deep sort of melancholy grey-blue—or perhaps he’d even heard, first hand. He could very well be a friend of any of the other people Geth was sharing this space with . . . huddling in his corner and keeping an eye on.

 

Still, that didn’t explain why the new boy was staring at Geth as if he had antenna instead of ears, or an arm off, or something.

 

After meeting that sea-blue gaze for nearly a minute, Geth quirked his left eyebrow in disdainful question. The new boy flushed pink enough that even with the ruddy light of the rubbish-can fire between them, Geth could still make it out. Then, the new boy smiled, friendly and somewhat silly, revealing slightly crooked, but white-looking teeth. He even lifted his hand and waved a little.

 

Letting _his_ raised eyebrow continue to speak for him, Geth huffed and shifted his attention away from the new boy. Not entirely— _new_ often meant _possibly-dangerous-X-factor_ , on the streets—but just enough for the prat to get the message.

 

To his left, silent and eerily placid Owain sat in his bubble of blank silence. Not far from him were the fraternal twins known only as Justice and Anders. The former was scowling intently into the flames, his seething anger and discontent obvious, his fiery dark eyes focused and distracted simultaneously. The latter twin merely looked sad and thoughtful . . . frightened and regretful despite his brother’s protective arm around his slumped shoulders.

 

As ever, Geth wondered at their age. They were tall. Taller, even, than Cullen, though not as tall as Hawke. While Justice’s face seemed . . . young/old and ancient/ageless—fierce—Anders’ face was simply weary and haunted.

 

Himself but a year from the age of majority, Geth had a feeling the twins were a year or two _beyond it_ , but—as was occasionally obvious—emotionally unstable in a way that didn’t lend itself well to . . . fitting in with adult society.

 

Beyond them were others that he knew by name, and some he didn’t. A big, quiet, forbidding boy called Shale who _never_ spoke. A tall, ginger girl called Leliana, who barely spoke any English—or pretended she couldn’t—and a clearly-smitten Daveth, a notorious pickpocket and liar, who was always trying to cosy up to her. Some other familiar faces, too, that Geth noted and passed over.

 

To his right, Jowan and Lily, his only friends in the world—and, he recognized, perhaps only by necessity, as Jowan was far too nervous for Geth to be _truly_ comfortable around, and Lily far too devout and sincere—and also runaways from the Chantry Home for Orphans.

 

The couple sat huddled in each other’s arms, Lily shivering and Jowan doing his best to keep her warm. She was bundled in most of her clothes—the ones that could still fit over her rounded belly—and no few of Jowan’s. Her face was pale and wan . . . sickly-looking, her once sturdy body gone thin and nearly frail, but for her stomach.

 

Geth was no doctor, but he had a feeling that a woman losing so much weight during her third trimester probably wasn’t good. And he had a feeling that Lily and Jowan were feeling the same apprehension. But, just like all the other runaways and delinquents, they had few options that didn’t end in some Home or other, and separation from each other and their as-yet unborn sprog.

 

Though he didn’t necessarily believe in a god or any sort of over-arching universal benevolence, Geth sometimes found himself wishing . . . hoping . . . even bargaining with something that probably didn’t even exist, for the life and health of a child that hadn’t even been born yet.

 

“Are you hungry, love?” Jowan murmured anxiously, leaning in to kiss Lily’s temple. Her cornflower-blue eyes remained on the rubbish-can fire, though she tried to smile. But even that seemed to drain her . . . make her shoulders slump a bit more.

 

“Not tonight, no,” Lily said quietly, and Geth could barely hear her soft, tired voice. But he heard it well enough for his own chest to hurt . . . as if he couldn’t quite get in enough oxygen. “I’m just grateful I kept down breakfast.”

 

Jowan’s worried, dark eyes met Geth’s over Lily’s scarf-covered head. He, too, looked wan and somewhat thin, but then, Jowan always did. His lank, shoulder-length brown hair made his long face look that much thinner.

 

Geth grabbed his pack and rooted around underneath his few belongings, some clothing and odds and ends he’d been unable to leave at Chantry. When he found what he was looking for, he tossed it underhand at Jowan, behind Lily’s back.

 

“Look!” Jowan said brightly, holding the plastic sleeve of probably-stale chocolate biscuits in front of his girlfriend’s exhausted face. “Geth’s been holdin’ out on us, the little skinflint, but he finally ponied up! They’re your favorites, too!”

 

Lily tried to smile again, and still didn’t look away from the fire. One thin, shaking hand settled on her stomach. “Thank you, Geth . . . but I’m not even a little peckish. I suppose our little miracle’s still full from breakfast.”

 

Jowan and Geth shared another concerned look. Breakfast had been just after dawn. But for a few crackers and some water to battle her nausea, Lily hadn’t eaten all day.

 

“Nonsense, Lil,” Geth finally spoke, also softly, trying to sound as calm and teasing as he might have just a few weeks ago. “We all know the sprog takes after her Uncle Geth. Got a hollow leg—could eat all day and halfway through the night!”

 

Jowan laughed—nervously, of course—even as Geth did. But Lily merely stared off into the fire, her face tired and dreamy, as it was more and more often, these days.

 

Geth’s laughter tapered off just before Jowan’s, and he looked away from his friends—from Lily’s too-serene distraction and Jowan’s frightened desperation. He found himself looking, once more, at the new boy . . . into those sea-blue eyes and that now-somber face.

 

Geth, feeling caught-out and vulnerable—seen-into—scowled fiercely at the new boy, _until_ those eyes, sympathetic and kind, though neither sympathy nor kindness was wanted or warranted, shifted to the rubbish-can fire, taking on a distraction that was eerily similar to Lily’s.

 

#

 

The next time Geth noticed the sea-eyed boy, it was in the shabby-sad green-patch that passed for a park in the so-called Commerce Sector.

 

It was nearing evening, and Geth was merely killing time in the least stressful place he could easily walk to, before heading to one of the charitable kitchens Downtown that served dinner and asked no questions.

 

Though . . . to say Geth was, at that time, in a shape to notice anything would . . . probably have been an overstatement of matters. He was too busy fending off one of his occasional spells of dizzy breathlessness—of free-floating, unchecked anxiety—to notice anything that wasn’t an asteroid hurtling toward him, shooting off sparklers and singing the national anthem in falsetto.

 

Maintaining his customary, and hard-won outward calm over the panic that wanted to go rampaging throughout his psyche, taking his body with it, Geth was bracing himself on a peeling, red, wooden bench that was probably older than the park, itself. It was speckled here and there with bird shit, but not nearly as much as some of the other benches. Geth, always prepared for such an eventuality, anyway, had calmly, methodically—ignoring his own shortness of breath, the spinning of the world, and the tunneling of his blurry-bright vision—dug out one of his old, already-read newspapers, and lined the bench like it was the bottom of a bird cage. Then, placing his pack down gently, he sat heavily next to it. Just in time, too, because when he took his next breath in, or tried to, it felt as if a vise was clamped around his sternum, preventing him from taking even a quarter of a normal breath.

 

In less than a minute, the world began to lurch and darken, and he knew that if he couldn’t get this spell under control—he’d likely pass out and wake up in jail, if lucky, or being jumped/rolled/raped, if he wasn’t.

 

Even though his every instinct cautioned him against doing so, Geth eventually closed his eyes on the spinning-lurching-blurry word, and its too-bright colors—even on this overcast, sad fall day, the spell had rendered the muted, gave-up greens of this pathetic, green-patch into emeralds left in the sun. The sky, itself, was a beautiful, bright, pearlescent silver-white that hurt his eyes and his heart. Made them both shed tears.

 

Moaning, Geth buried his face in his hands and tried all his old tricks for distracting and calming himself. Counting seconds, counting breaths, counting trip-hammering heartbeats, mentally singing every Herman’s Hermits song he knew—which was all of them—then almost every _Fiona Apple_ song he knew—same thing—conjugating Latin verbs, reciting the silly limericks he’d used to love. . . .

 

He’d tried it all, it seemed. And was circling back around to Herman’s Hermits out of sheer desperation when a quick peek from between his lashes showed a bright-blurry, spinning-yawing world.

 

“Fuck,” he exhaled, barely missing a beat in his now out-loud, though under-his-breath singing. “Anxiety attacks in the park, I have . . . panic attacks in the park. . . .”

 

“Hmm . . . you’ve got a great voice. Very in-tune. But I believe the next line is actually: _I’m her eighth old man, I’m ‘Enry . . . ‘Enry the eighth, I am!_ Then: _second verse, same as the first_. . . .”

 

Starting at the soft, low voice coming from just next to him, Geth gasped and looked over to his left, instinctively clutching his almost-forgotten backpack to his side. He found himself blinking up into sea-blue eyes he instantly placed, despite his state.

 

“You,” Geth huffed, breathless and without inflection, then clutched his pack closer still, blinking and moaning again as he took in the fair, friendly, trebled features of the new boy from three nights ago. The messy, wheat-blond hair, was now covered by a dark cap, in deference to the slight chill in the air, though everything else was the same.

 

“Yes, me,” the boy said in a chipper, but slightly hapless tone, shrugging. Geth blinked again and found himself staring intently into those deep, kind sea-eyes. That color, pensive and somehow magical—if only because of Geth’s current state and his propensity to nostalgia and whimsy for things and places he’d never had or seen—seemed to be a stable point in his spinning world.

 

That, and the boy’s curious, kind smile. They were almost . . . anchoring.

 

Geth gasped in a breath, or tried. His stupid lungs and ribcage wouldn’t expand like they were supposed to, however. The world spun worse than ever, but for the boy’s sea-eyes and smile.

 

“I remember you from the other night . . . at the warehouse,” the boy said, affable and strangely anxious, in equal measures. His smile widened into something hopeful and daffy as he held out his hand. If Geth’d had the breath for it, he’d have snorted in complete disdain. As it was, he merely looked away. Down at his lap, closing his eyes tight as he parceled out measured breaths. “Er, I’m Alistair, by the way. But everyone calls me . . . well, _Alistair_ , I suppose. You can, too, if you like. Though, really, I’ll answer to anything. And you are?”

 

“Oh, bloody-fucking-shit,” Geth croaked out as even the darkness behind his eyelids started to spin nauseatingly.

 

Next to him, the boy’s startled silence was long. At least thirteen beats. Geth counted each one, not that that helped.

 

“Yoooou . . . are clearly having some sort of panic attack. . . ! Ah! Aha-ha! Dear, me!” The boy, Alistair, exclaimed, sounding horrified, worried, and—somewhere under that nervous chuckle—sympathetic.

 

“Johnny . . . on-the-spot of you . . . to notice,” Geth panted out, labored and wheezing, as everything went sideways and the red-darkness of behind-his-eyelids became just _darkness_.

 

#

 

When Geth came to again, drained and dizzy and enervated, he moaned pitifully, still terribly nauseated, though able to breathe quite a bit easier.

 

It took several minutes of recollecting himself in the lazily spinning red-dark behind his closed and tired eyes, before he realized he was prone. Lying, it felt like, in someone’s lap. Something he hadn’t done in nearly a year. Since Zevran disappeared from the Chantry Home.

 

For long, _wonderful_ , terrible moments, Geth dared to luxuriate in the naïve and probably false feelings of safety and companionship . . . the solid leg under his heavy, aching head—not lean and wiry, like Zevran’s, but thick with muscle—and the gentle, reverant hand carding through his shaggy, less-than-clean, dark hair as if through spun gold.

 

For long, wonderful, _terrible_ moments . . . Geth fought tears and more anxiety, more panic, more breathless, aching _loss_ at thoughts of the fearless, merry, shameless older boy, whose arrival at the Home had been like the sun rising after a lifetime of rainy, gray, lightless days.

 

 _So, what’s to despair over?_ Geth demanded of himself. _Zevran Arainai simply ran away. And that’s that. Someone as bright and independent and . . . free of spirit would’ve wasted away after another six months in the Home. He saw his chance to be quit of that horrible place, and took it . . . just because he took it without_ me _, even after he_ promised _. . . he saw his chance and took it. That’s all. It happens._

 

But Geth couldn’t quite believe that, though he _dearly_ wanted to. Even though contemplating that likelihood hurt like acid eating away at the heart he’d _never_ have discovered without Zevran, he _wanted_ to believe that the other boy had simply run, and was now beyond the age of majority and thus safe out of the Home’s dour, loveless hands. But he just didn’t. Couldn’t.

 

Not with Zevran’s disappearance coming suddenly on the heels of the assistant director of the Home catching Geth and Zevran in their—heretofore and erstwhile—safe, hidden nook, in a _very_ compromising position, indeed. . . .

 

And then, mere days after Zevran’s supposed running away from the Home, that _same_ assistant director then cornering a numb, inconsolable, mid-panic attack Geth in that same _nook_ , and trying to—

 

Shivering, Geth instantly shut down that train of thought. Opened his eyes decisively, if slowly, squinting up at a spinning, twilight sky, bright gold-orange-pink nearer the horizon, and blue-purple-black higher up Heaven’s vault.

 

Evening, then. He’d been unconscious for at least two hours, from the look of things. Which meant he’d missed his chance at a second meal for the day. A thing not unheard of in his eight months on the streets . . . but one he mostly managed to avoid.

 

Plus, the places he and Jowan and Lily were regular faces at would, if Lily and Jowan didn’t show with Geth, give him food to take to them—with an especially heaping plate for Lily and the sprog.

 

Geth groaned and sagged in whoever’s lap he was lying in, for a few seconds, before trying to sit up. Perhaps if he hustled—as much as his aching, spinning head and rubbery, faint body would allow—he might make it before the kitchen closed. . . .

 

“Easy, there, friend . . . you’ve been out for some time,” a semi-familiar voice said, and the hand carding Geth’s stringy-dirty hair almost tenderly . . . stopped. It then settled on his shoulder firmly, and a semi-familiar face, worried and kind, even in the shadows of a less-than-friendly evening, hoved into his compromised view.

 

“Alistair,” Geth breathed, letting the other boy’s hand hold him down, for the moment. His eyes locked onto a gaze as fathomless and dark a blue as the sea seen at midnight, before they slipped shut.

 

“That’s me,” that peppy-anxious voice chirruped, with its private school-crispness and posh roundness. With its low, somehow comforting timbre and hints of a nervous chuckle. “Glad you’re, er, feeling better? One hopes? Ummm . . . yes, you’ve, er, been out for a good while. I was beginning to worry. Well . . . worry _more_.”

 

“I’m fine,” Geth gritted out after a minute, opening his eyes once more on a world that, through sheer willpower and bloody-mindedness, was spinning rather less than it had been. This time, when he attempted to sit up, the other boy, Alistair, helped him with a put-upon sigh, after a few moments.

 

“You’re probably _far_ from fine, but you seem like the sort of stubborn, contrary git, who’d _make_ _himself fine_ just to prove the entire _world_ wrong,” Alistair said dryly, snorting.

 

When Geth was upright and holding steady, he looked into Alistair’s face again, keeping his body from listing back down into Alistair’s lap through main-force.

 

“I’m _not_ a git,” he mumbled, frowning and letting his gaze drop away from the nearly-fond amusement in those midnight-sea eyes. No one had ever looked at him like that, before or since Zevran, and . . . Geth was not in _any_ state to go there. Not when he still had to try and get dinner for Lily, at least.

 

“But you _are_ stubborn and contrary?” Alistair snorted again, his right hand sliding down from Geth’s shoulder, to settle low down his back, as Geth swung his legs off the bench slowly. “Good to know, then.”

 

“Where’s my—ah.” Geth took a deep, steadying breath before leaning forward to pick up his pack off the ground and place it on the bench to his right. To his left, Alistair’s presence was solid and warm, even with a few chilly inches—then a full half-foot that Geth was quick to put between their bodies—separating them.

 

Alistair’s hand on his back slid a bit to the left, but didn’t leave his back. Geth could feel the warmth and strength of that hand even through his layers of grimy t-shirt, threadbare jumper, and falling-apart rayon jacket.

 

“I suppose I should . . . thank you. For . . . keeping watch while I . . . recovered,” Geth said uncomfortably, as he searched for and found no excuses in his scattered mind for why he wasn’t pulling away from Alistair’s touch. Geth didn’t particularly like being touched by anyone. Didn’t even tolerate it, really, except from Lily, who had a tendency to and talent for giving . . . not-horrible hugs. Warm and enveloping ones.

 

(She would, Geth often thought wistfully, be a _very_ good Mum . . . make her sprog a very _happy and lucky_ little girl.)

 

Geth, of course, had _never_ really been one for physical contact or affections, even as a small child. And certainly not as a teenager . . . not until Zevran, and not after. Not since what’d happened just before he, Jowan, and Lily ran away from the Home together. Even _kind_ unexpected touches were generally alarming and unpleasant to him. They sent his brain and body hurtling back to that awful night, and his own helplessness and fright as he was held down . . . pinned and touched and abandoned to the mercy of the merciless. Or, perhaps, the fickle whim of the indifferent universe.

 

“Erm . . . thank you. Alistair,” Geth added in another mumble, as he realized the silence between them had stretched out.

 

Another nervous laugh. “Ah. No thanks are necessary. I only did what any, er, decent person would’ve done.”

 

“Considering the dearth of such in this city . . . even common decency deserves a thank you. So, I thank you. For not hurting me or robbing me or simply leaving me to my fate. Thank you.”

 

Another silence, this one distinctly curious. When Geth chanced a glance at the other boy, it was to find that midnight-sea gaze gone worried once more. Solemn and sad.

 

“I’m sorry that your experience heretofore has been so . . . unkind,” Alistair said quietly, and for long moments, Geth couldn’t breathe, once more, only stare into Alistair’s eyes. Let himself be confused and almost dazzled by compassion that was seemingly without agenda or goal.

 

“I. . . .” flushing, and looking back down at his lap and clutching his pack, Geth shrugged twitchily. “ _Life_ is unkind, Alistair. I learned that early . . . or should have, I suppose. The fact that jumps in that unkindness still catch me off-guard, occasionally, is neither here nor there. Nor is the rare and unexpected altruistic gesture.”

 

Taking another deep breath, Geth slowly, gingerly levered himself to his feet. His legs were only marginally cooperative or steady, but they held. After half a minute to make certain they’d continue holding, Geth grabbed his pack, grunting and wincing at its sudden heaviness—scrawny and waifish, though Geth had always been, he’d always been quite strong . . . like an ant—then shouldered it painstakingly.

 

When he was also sure that he wouldn’t topple tail over teakettle because of the pack’s normally manageable weight, he turned to look at Alistair, who was watching him with wide, incredulous eyes.

 

“Really?” Alistair asked in sheer disbelief. “You’re actually going to go gadding about with that heavy pack, mere _minutes_ after regaining consciousness, and while _still_ swaying and clearly having trouble breathing?”

 

Geth blinked. “Yes,” he said, shrugging. It wasn’t as if he could be sat about _all_ night, swooning and fainting in some manly bloke’s arms like a damsel in distress.

 

Alistair shook his head, as if torn between exasperation and admiration. “Right. _Of course_. Because . . . what _else_ would one do after a panic attack and a faint, _but_ walk about a dangerous city at night? Ha-ha.”

 

Geth shrugged again. It was what it was. _That_ philosophy had kept him going longer than whining and whinging about the unfairness of it all ever had.

 

“Well. Good evening,” he said, when he couldn’t think of anything else to say but another _thank you_. He backed away from Alistair for a few feet, frowning at the suddenly miserable and bereft look on the other boy’s face. But, with a limp wave, he started to turn away, toward the eastern exit of the park and the nearest kitchen.

 

“Er—WAIT!” Alistair called and, half-facing away, Geth paused, glancing back as the other boy jumped up and hurried toward him, his face anxious and hopeful.

 

“Yes?” Geth waited warily until Alistair drew even with him. The other boy was a few inches taller . . . probably five-eleven or an even six feet. He was sturdily built—brawny, but not intimidatingly so—and dressed in fairly nice clothes. Especially for a runaway. The jeans were clean, well-fitted, and nearly-new. The black pea coat was clean and well-made. The boots on his feet were tough, and well-cared for. Even the stupid cap was of good make.

 

If he was a runaway, he was a _recent_ one. Geth could all but smell the clean-soap scent of Alistair’s last shower on his skin and the fabric softener in his clothes. _Someone’s_ love and concern and _care_ still shined from Alistair’s being like hearth-light.

 

But that, too, was what it was. _Every_ runaway had their reasons, and it wasn’t Geth’s place to judge or even speculate.

 

“I, er,” Alistair began, then laughed uncomfortably, reaching up to run a hand across his nape, his gaze drifting to the night-dark smudges that were semi-distant trees to the west. “That is . . . I’m . . . sort of, erm, new, to this fair city—” Geth snorted, but said nothing, letting Alistair stammer out the rest of his piece “—and, well, that is . . . I, em, don’t really know how things . . . _work_ , here, yet. And. I. Er. Was. Wondering? Yes! If you might—er . . . that is, if _I_ could, possibly, tag-along with you for a bit? _Only_ until I get my bearings, of course! You know . . . just until I know where all the lightning sand, flame-spurts, and ROUSes are.”

 

Torn between annoyed concern and a strange, almost angry glee, Geth stared up into those eyes for nearly a minute, then huffed. “Rodents of Unusual Size? I don’t think they exist.”

 

Alistair’s eyes widened in almost glazed shock, and then he smiled, big and goofy and brilliant, his peachy-fair face gone red enough to be visible even at dusk.

 

“Wow,” he said, almost dreamily, rocking forward on his toes a bit, “tough, clever, attractive, _and_ great taste in cinema? Be still, my beating heart. Ah-ha-ha.”

 

Alistair actually _said ah-ha-ha_ , instead of laughing his nervous laugh. Geth rolled his eyes, determined not to flush, failing, and turning brusque because of that. “Well. Whether or not I’m _clever_ remains to be seen.” He sniffed, then cleared his throat and turned away before he could give in to the urge to smile. “Tag-along, if you wish. If you _must_. Just keep up as best you can and shut up when I tell you.”

 

“Will do!”

 

When Geth started walking again, Alistair quickly caught up and easily _kept up_.

 

“So. Er.” Alistair was clearly going to have issues with the “shut up” part, but Geth was quite used to inane prattle from Jowan, so he took this mouthiness in stride. “Is there, er, anything you wish to . . . ah, be called?”

 

Geth glanced at Alistair with his left eyebrow quirked. The other boy was looking down at the ground, his face red once more. “Anything I _wish_ to be called? You mean, like, _sir_ , or _slut_ , or . . . _daddy_?” When Alistair’s dark, startled gaze whipped up to his face, Geth snorted. “Oh, calm down, you great ninny, I’m only taking the piss. I’ll answer to _Geth_.”

 

“Ah! Ha-ha! Right! Of course! Geth! That’s a, er . . . it’s certainly a name! Well!” Alistair’s very _tone_ was scarlet, and Geth didn’t have to glance over again to know Alistair’s _face_ had followed suit. “So, um . . . where’re we, er, going? The warehouse, again?” Alistair asked meekly. His darting gaze kept landing on Geth’s face like sporadic rays of sunshine.

 

“No. At least . . . not yet. I . . . have to go to the charitable kitchen on Perth and Vincent—little more than half a mile from here—to get dinner for my friend. Or try to.” Geth’s brow furrowed at the thought that Lily and the sprog likely hadn’t eaten since the few bites she’d reluctantly forced down the evening before. “Maybe tonight she’ll actually _eat_ _it_. If only for the sake of the sprog.”

 

“I see,” Alistair said as they rounded the last turn before the eastern exit. He was keeping pace so easily with Geth’s normally quick scurry, that Geth knew he was at a _significant_ deficit thanks to his ill-timed spell. He was already breathing harder as they passed out of the park and onto the cracked and jagged sidewalk. The pack felt like an anvil on his back.

 

The roads at the city-center were travelled by cars, but not clogged with them. Rush-hour was almost over, which meant that Geth would have to hurry. Somehow.

 

“What time does this kitchen, er, stop serving dinner?”

 

“Probably a few minutes ago,” Geth admitted, sighing. “But I have to try. For Lily.” _For the sprog._

 

“What about her . . . er . . . boyfriend? That fellow that was with her, the other evening?”

 

“Jowan won’t leave her side, he’s so paranoid about her safety. And she’s too . . . tired and drained lately to go very far from wherever they decide to doss for the evening. More often than not, I’m the one who gets them meals, lately,” Geth said guiltily, knowing that, in all likelihood, he’d failed in that duty for this evening. “Right shitty butler I am, too. Jowan’d be within his rights to black my eye.”

 

Alistair hummed. “I dunno about _that_. But that sort of dedication and care, loyalty and concern to, er, Lily and her baby, is quite admirable.”

 

“Yes. He’ll be a good, if flustered father to the sprog.” Geth smiled wearily.

 

“I’m sure he will, G-Geth, but . . . I wasn’t speaking of Jowan.” When Geth looked over at the other boy, it was to see a smile—very much _not_ nervous—curving his wide, mobile mouth. “You’re quite a fierce, kind, and lovely person, aren’t you?”

 

Geth huffed again, and put on a slight burst of speed that Alistair again had no trouble keeping up with. “Well. _I_ dunno about _that_ , but . . . _someone’s_ gotta worry after the sprog, even now. Make sure she gets the things she needs, even if it’s just a warm meal once in a blue moon. Huh. And Heavens know _Lily and Jowan_ don’t have half a dram of common sense or survival instincts between them! It’s Uncle Geth, to the rescue, or _no one_ , really!”

 

Alistair’s laugh, when it came, was deep and loud and unreserved. Geth’s mouth twitched several times before he glanced at Alistair once more and allowed himself a brief chuckle, and a somewhat less disdainful smirk.

 

#

 

After that, it seemed, there _was_ no _just Geth_ or _Geth, Jowan, and Lily_ (and the sprog). Alistair became a part of their trio until it seemed as if he’d always been. They became a _quartet_ . . . and rather quickly, too.

 

Alistair walked with them and talked with them, ate with them and slept with them, begged with them and scavenged with them. He was courtly and courteous with Lily, always managing to get her little extras—and Jowan, though normally jealous of strange male-people paying attention to his girlfriend, seemed to trust Alistair rather quickly, and appreciate his brotherly kindnesses—or kept up Jowan’s spirits by engaging in the sort of talk about sport and such that boys their age often indulged in.

 

Though, in the end, he seemed more attached to Geth—even a few weeks on, after he’d more or less learned the relatively simple ropes of being homeless in such a small, but occasionally _mean_ city—than anyone. His days were seemingly built around whatever Geth chose to do with his. He was always after Geth to actually eat, when Geth forgot—as he did, of late, in his worry about Lily’s loss of appetite—and to get more sleep, little knowing that Geth’s sleep was far from restful and often riddled with nightmares.

 

Even in the evenings, when they were bedding down for the night—Lily in a corner, protected by Jowan, and the two of them protected by Geth and Alistair—as they lay staring at the dying remains of yet another rubbish-can fire, Geth could feel Alistair’s eyes on him, bright and fond and . . . something Geth hesitated to put a name to. . . .

 

But it _warmed_ _him_ more than any rubbish-can fire ever would.

 

“I think he fancies you, Geth,” Jowan noted quietly, one evening, after Alistair’d gone to get rid of some of the massive amounts of sugary orange soda he’d guzzled at the charitable kitchen, earlier. Geth watched him make his way out to the back garden of the small, falling-down cottage where they’d been kipping for the past week, quite unaware he was staring until Jowan snorted. “And it’s obvious there’s plenty of fancying going around.”

 

“What?” Geth blinked as Alistair disappeared from sight, then turned to look at Jowan, who was sitting on a small wooden crate. Behind him, in a corner, covered in clothes and blankets, Lily slept on her back, one hand on her stomach, the other curled up near her cheek. Her appetite had been improving a bit, over the past few days, but she still looked wan and weary. Still barely had the energy to go farther than the privy.

 

Jowan smirked at Geth, knowing and amused. “ _You_ , Geth. Alistair _fancies_ your pretty, little self. And it’s plain to everyone that _you_ fancy the big brute, right back.”

 

Dark eyes narrowing, Geth scowled. “I’m certain I have _no_ idea what you’re on about, Jowan.”

 

His brows shooting up with disbelief, Jowan snorted. “If _that’s_ the way you wanna play it, but mark my word, Gethrien Surana . . . he looks at you like you hung the bloody moon. Even _Lily’s_ been noticing. _She_ thinks it’s darling, by the way.” Jowan glanced back at his girlfriend, his thin, clever face softening with love and worry. Then, he turned his gaze, still amused, but leavened with gravity, now, back on Geth. His brown eyes shone with several complex emotions. “Just sayin’. When a man looks at someone the way Alistair looks at you . . . he’s in deep. The kinda deep he ain’t likely to find his way out of any time soon.”

 

Geth blushed bright, looking down and away from the small, battery-powered lamp Alistair had somehow procured for them. “I . . . surely you’re mistaken. . . .”

 

“I don’t think I am. And even if I was, _Lily_ wouldn’t be. Not about stuff like this. _Feelings_ -stuff. She called you and that Zevran-fellow, back at the Chantry Home.” Jowan paused when Geth winced and shivered. “Haven’t seen you smile so much since before he ran away . . . or whatever. Now, you’re smiling and laughing and . . . not glaring at everyone so much. That’s down to Alistair, or the coincidence is uncanny.”

 

Geth turned a grim, once more narrowed gaze on Jowan. “ _If_ any of that stuff is true, then it is, of course, _pure_ coincidence.”

 

“Right. Because _that’s_ something you believe in.” Jowan snorted again.

 

“Maybe it is.”

 

“Uh-huh. And that’s why you barely tolerate even Lily hugging you, but when _Alistair_ gets all touchy with you—”

 

“Touchy?!” Geth scoffed.

 

“Putting his hand on your back—never too far from your arse, by the way—you not only _let_ him, but you smile and _blush_ when he does!” Jowan’s brows shot up again. “I’m no shrink, but considering the way you flinch when even _I_ forget and clap your shoulder, that’s worth remarking over.”

 

“I—” Geth blanched, blushed, then blanched again. “I . . . don’t flinch when you touch me.”

 

Jowan’s brows lowered in compassion and a bit of discomfort. “Geth . . . Lily told me about what happened the night we ran away. About what Marley _tried_ to do to you. She said she wasn’t even sure he _hadn’t_ , the way you were . . . shook up when she got the drop on him.” He sighed, looking away from a gaping, mortified Geth, rolling his bony, wide shoulders. “I can’t imagine what that sort of thing happening, or even _almost_ happening, would _do_ to a person. Even one as strong as _you_ . . . but it _did_ do _something_ , Gethrien. It made you colder and harder and . . . _dimmer_. All camouflage and caution. And _Alistair’s_ the first person since that Zevran-kid whose touch makes you _warm_ again—makes you softer, brighter, and open—makes you _smile_ , rather than flinch and stoically tolerate the contact.”

 

Geth’s mouth was working, but no sounds emerged. When Jowan looked up, he was smiling again, sad and understanding. “Just thought that was worth bringing to your attention, Mr. Surana. For Alistair’s sake—he really _does_ seem like a good bloke, if a bit sheltered and soft—and for yours.”

 

And before Geth could snark or scoff at that—though, with _what_ rebuttal, he had no idea—Alistair was coming back into the main room of the drafty, rickety cottage. The older boy was shivering, and brought in with him a gust of cool, autumn-scented air, and his big, brilliant smile, which, as always, went to Geth, first and foremost. Lingered and admired and _hoped_.

 

Geth caught himself before he could return the smile and looked away, forcing on a scowl that no longer felt natural.

 

#

 

“So, you’re angry with me. I get that. But what I _don’t_ get is . . . _why_.”

 

Geth, sitting in the shabby park, at the same bench where Alistair had kept watch over him during that anxiety attack nearly one month prior, didn’t look up when Alistair sat next to him on the spread of old newspapers. The other boy’s leg lightly brushed against Geth’s and though he shivered, he didn’t pull away. Didn’t move closer, but didn’t pull away.

 

He _wanted_ to, however. About as much as he _didn’t_ want to.

 

Geth huffed, more confused than ever. He glared out into the afternoon sky until the overcast light forced him to squint.

 

“I’m not mad at you.”

 

“I, er, beg to differ. Having seen you be, er, not-mad? At me? I think I’m probably able to tell when you’re mad, now.” Alistair sighed, folding his hands between his knees. His jeans no longer looked so new or clean, and his hands were grubby and rough, just like Geth’s. Larger and squarer, though. His fingers were blunt, but capable-looking, and linked together as if to stop them from fidgeting. “I’ve . . . upset you. I . . . _keep_ upsetting you, somehow, and for that I’m . . . sorrier than mere words can convey. But I can’t figure out where I went wrong or how to stop on my own. So . . . if you could . . . maybe tell me what I’ve done and what it’ll take to mend things between us—”

 

“ _Mend things_? Between _us_?” Geth sniffed. “And what things would _those_ be?”

 

Alistair sighed again, heavy and sad. “I . . . rather thought you and I were . . . getting on. Well. Like . . . friends. _Good_ friends. Or even _better_ than that, perhaps? Ah-ha-ha. _Very_ good friends?” He unlinked his large hands, the right one moving toward the outer edge of his thigh and toward Geth, whose eyes widened. He didn’t even realize until their hands were nearly touching along their pinkies that his own hand was instinctively, automatically moving toward Alistair’s, as well.

 

Curling his hand into a fist, but not quite having the fortitude to move it away, Geth tried to square his sagging shoulders. “I . . . Alistair. . . .”

 

“Or maybe _more_ , even, than _very good friends?_ I thought . . . I hoped. . . .” Alistair groaned. “Bloody hell! You’d think this would be _easier_ , mind—though, not really? I mean, you’re, er . . . rather intimidating and _beautiful_ and smart and so _different_ from anyone I’ve ever known—but every time I’m around you, I . . . . feel as if my _head’s_ going to explode, and I . . . I can’t _think_ _straight_!” A creaky, self-deprecating laugh. “Pun intended, I suppose.”

 

Geth snuck a quick peek at Alistair’s face. It resembled a beet, more than a peach, now, and his eyes were squeezed tight-shut. “Alistair. . . .”

 

“Here’s the thing,” Alistair went on, as if trying to get what was on his mind out in the open, before he lost either his words or his nerve. “Being near you makes me _crazy_ , Geth. Absolutely, cuckoo-bananas _bonkers_. But . . . I can’t imagine being _without_ you, either. Not . . . _ever_.”

 

Geth’s mouth dropped open and this time, not even Alistair’s name fell out in the silence between them. He merely blushed and looked down at his dirty, knobby, denim-clad knees.

 

Finally, clearly disheartened, but having come too far to turn back, the older boy went on manfully, if still a bit creakily. “I . . . don’t know how to say this another way, Geth. Maybe this is too fast—too _soon_ —I don’t know. But I know what I _feel_. In my _heart_. For _you_.”

 

When eyes that he hadn’t even realized he’d closed flew open at the brush of a warm, rough hand against his own, Geth gasped and looked over at Alistair, who was watching him with eyes as deep and blue and turbulent as a storm-tossed sea. He licked his slightly chapped lips and smiled anxiously, hopefully, almost dreamily.

 

“I . . . I’ve never . . . never _been_ with anyone. In _any_ way. Never even held hands with anyone. . . .” flushing, Alistair shrugged. “Been a bit cloistered, me. I always assumed that lo—the sort of things I feel for you were for mere mortals, and that I was, somehow, above all that. Or maybe just not suited to it, I dunno. Some stupid, up-my-own-arse bollocks.” He snorted derisively at himself, but his mouth ticked up at the right corner. “But then I saw you, and . . . I’d never felt _anything_ like what I felt then—and what I feel _now_ —for _anyone_ before. And when I finally _met_ you . . . when I got to _know_ you . . . when you let me become your friend, well. I, of course, treasure that friendship. The trust you and Jowan and Lily have given me. The companionship. But when it comes to _you_ , _Geth_ . . . there’s more than gratitude and friendship and enjoying your company. I. . . .”

 

Falling silent again, Alistair looked down at their touching hands, unclenching his own and covering Geth’s with it tentatively, squeezing gently when Geth shivered, but didn’t pull away.

 

“Listen, Geth,” he began in a low, gravely sincere tone. “I wanted to wait for the perfect time and the perfect place, but . . . when will it be perfect? If things were—perfect, that is—we wouldn’t even have met.” Alistair frowned down at their hands, then squeezed Geth’s a little tighter. “We sort of . . . stumbled into each other. And despite this being the _least_ perfect time for it, I found myself falling for you. In between all the scrambling and scrounging, and everything else.”

 

Geth blinked for the first time in what felt like ages, hot tears running down his chilled face and trebling his vision. “But . . . you . . . _me_? _What_? _Alistair_ —”

 

“I’ve, ah . . . I’ve never, er, held hands with anyone.” With a small laugh, Alistair swallowed, his Adam’s-apple bobbing almost comically. “Never _wanted to_ badly enough to overcome my, er . . . my _hesitance_ to engage in that sort of . . . activity. Slippery slopes, and that. But I _really_ don’t want to wait any longer. As I’ve said, I’ve _never_ done _that_ or anything else with anyone, before. But I . . . I want my first hand-holding—my first _everything_ —to be with _you_ , Geth. While we have still the chance and just in case something happens.” Alistair sighed and bit his lip, his brow furrowing. “Before my _brother_ —”

 

Shaking and almost numb with his own hopes and fears, Geth leaned over at the same time as he turned his hand in Alistair’s to clasp it back . . . to _hold_ it. Surprise made Alistair look up again, and he fell silent, his eyes widening as Geth’s _shut_ , and he pressed his lips to the older boy’s slightly open mouth. Alistair’s chapped lips tasted of salty, overcooked fries and syrupy-sweet cola.

 

(At least that meant, most likely, that Lily and Jowan had eaten, too, while Geth was off brooding all morning and part of the afternoon. Alistair always made sure that if he was eating, they _all_ were eating.)

 

Alistair moaned sweetly into the kiss, leaning into it, as well. When Geth’s tongue darted out to tease his lips lightly, Alistair gasped and opened his mouth wider, then rumbled hungrily, low in his chest.

 

Geth prolonged the kiss until, for once, he wasn’t the one who was short of breath.

 

“ _Geth, dearest_ ,” Alistair panted, leaning his forehead against Geth’s as he did. Geth inhaled shakily, then bussed Alistair’s wet, kiss-swollen lips tenderly, with more feeling than anything he’d done in so very long. Their hands were still tightly linked and Alistair’s breath puffed against Geth’s face between a series of overwhelmed chuckles. “You are . . . everything. All the things I didn’t know I needed and wanted. All the things that make me _happy_. And . . . I _l-love_ you. You know that, right?”

 

Geth shivered. Then nodded. Ignore it, though he’d tried, the way Alistair looked at him— _had been_ looking at him since that first night—had been the way Zevran had, once upon a time . . . had it been less than a year ago?

 

That same sort of bemused wonder and appreciation. That expression of almost ponderous attraction. The extra twinkle in bright eyes and the special quirk in a brilliant smile.

 

The utter willingness to be pulled into Geth’s rarely-providential, unlucky orbit.

 

“I know,” Geth whispered apologetically. “I don’t know how, or why . . . but I know.”

 

“Right! And, er . . . well, in case you were, ah, wondering, now’d be a really convenient time for you to say it _back_. I-If you _feel_ it, that is—I’m not—I don’t want to pressure you or force a feeling on you, I just mean . . . that if you feel for me even a _tenth_ of what I feel for you, then . . . I’ll be a very happy Alistair, indeed, to hear it.”

 

Geth sighed as more tears ran down his face, reaching up with his free hand to brush his fingertips down Alistair’s downy cheek. Said peach-fuzz was, weirdly enough, coming in a fairly flaming red. The thought made Geth smile, even as more tears fell.

 

“I’m not . . . the last boy I told that I loved him—my . . . my first boyfriend and first . . . _first_ —ran away from me. Ran away _without_ me. Or, so I assume, I . . . it’s possible that a . . . very disturbed individual may have hurt him to . . . to get to _me_ . . . made Zev . . . disappear.” Geth sniffed and shook his head guiltily.

 

“Get to you?” Alistair repeated flatly, leaning back just enough to look into Geth’s eyes, his own somber and confused. “Get to you _how_? Why?”

 

Geth shrugged and looked down, shuddering. After a minute of silence that went from puzzled to stunned to angry, Alistair’s large index finger settled gently under Geth’s chin, tilting his face up. The other boy was angry, but not, it was obvious, at Geth.

 

“Did he . . . _hurt_ you? This . . . disturbed individual?” Alistair asked in a voice that was tight with self-control and self-restraint, and calm like the heart of a raging tempest. Geth shrugged again . . . then nodded. Alistair’s face fell. “Geth, I . . . I’m so sorry, I—”

 

“It wasn’t . . . I mean, he _didn’t_ . . . he was drunk and clumsy and he . . . he _touched me_ places and . . . put his fingers—” Geth turned red and looked down once more. “But he didn’t . . . go _all_ the way? I mean, even just his fingers hurt, but . . . it could’ve been worse. _So much_ worse. I was . . . having a panic attack and was too weak and faint to put up much of a fight. Lily, bless her, could hear us . . . struggling. Or me wheezing. She’d been looking for me all evening to tell me about possibly being preggers.” Snorting, Geth smiled a bit. “She brained that arsehole over the head with an Oxford dictionary.”

 

Alistair’s eyebrows shot up. “An Oxford . . . bloody _hell_. Remind me _never_ to get on Lily’s bad side, then,” he said, smiling a little, too, his finger tenderly following the line of Geth’s jaw. “Also remind me to buy her about ten million _thank you_ -roses for her bravery and for saving you from . . . _worse_.”

 

“Of course. One day, when you’re fabulously wealthy and powerful, I’ll come knocking on your door to remind you of our time together on the mean streets, and to demand that you give Lily her fountains of _pink thank you_ -roses,” Geth said dryly, and Alistair’s smile widened, before it faltered.

 

“I . . . if that day ever comes, when I’m . . . wealthy and powerful, I’d like to think that . . . you’ll already be there to see it. To _share_ in it.”

 

Geth’s eyes widened in shock and Alistair cleared his throat, looking down at the collar of Geth’s grimy jumper.

 

“I’m _serious_ about how I feel for you, Geth. Serious about . . . _forever_. I know that your past has been . . . difficult and painful. That it’s tough for you to trust in me and what I feel for you. Maybe in what _you_ feel for _me_ , as well? And _my future_ is . . . well. I have _no_ _idea_ what the future may hold for me _or_ for us, but . . . I _don’t_ want to face it without _you_ by my side. Don’t want you to face it without _me_ by _your_ side.”

 

That troubled-seas gaze ticked back up to Geth’s and Alistair smiled again, small and hopeful, reaching up to brush Geth’s over-long, shadow-dark fringe out of his eyes. “I can’t _guarantee_ that circumstance or . . . something else won’t separate us for a time. There are . . . aspects of my life and my past that I’m rather dreading telling you about. Probabilities that wait in my future that are . . . not easily explained or overlooked. But I _can_ guarantee that if we _are_ separated, it _won’t_ be forever and that I’ll do _whatever_ it takes to come back to you. I don’t care if I have to sever all ties to Cailan and Duncan _permanently_ to be with you. I _won’t_ be another person who loves you, then _leaves_ you. I’m _never_ letting you go.”

 

This was said with such vehemence and determination that Geth was taken aback. Pleasantly. Then . . . the near-year-old ache of losing Zevran— _however_ Zevran had been lost to him—reared its head like a basilisk, sinking his tentative joy in guilt and heartache and despair.

 

“Don’t . . . don’t make promises like that, Alistair. _Never_ is a promise the universe will _always_ make you break,” he said with weary certainty, closing his eyes on more tears. After a few seconds, Alistair’s salty-sweet lips claimed his once more, clumsy and impassioned, to a mutual chorus of soft, sweet moans and hungry, desperate rumbles.

 

Soon, Geth was wrapping his arms around Alistair’s neck and letting himself be pulled closer, into Alistair’s arms. _Helping_ himself be pulled closer, as Alistair’s big hands settled first on his waist, then just above his arse.

 

“Do you want me, Geth?” Alistair breathed between kisses, his hands clenching tight on Geth’s lower back. “Do you . . . do you want to _be_ with me, like I do with you?”

 

“I . . . yes,” Geth admitted, sniffling, and laughing mirthlessly. In his sudden exhaustion, he found he couldn’t lie to Alistair, anymore. Let alone to himself. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s wrong and I’m fickle . . . maybe . . . maybe loneliness is making it impossible to think clearly. But . . . I want you. I want you to be my boyfriend. I . . . don’t know how much I can . . . _do_ —how far I can go. Like, beyond snogging and petting, I mean,” he murmured, hugging Alistair closer and tighter, and nuzzling the other boy’s nose. “I still . . . it _scares_ me. The idea of being with someone again, like that. _Not_ just because of what Marley did to me, but because the first and only time I let someone. . . .”

 

“Don’t, Geth. You don’t have to cut yourself open and bleed. You’ve been hurt enough. _Too much_ ,” Alistair said in a low, shaking voice. Geth barked a laugh.

 

“Perhaps. But . . . I need you to understand this about me, Alistair. To never . . . never feel that I _lied_ to you about who and what I am, and how I’ve been . . . _damaged_.” His brow furrowing as he searched for the right words, Geth finally shook his head. “I gave myself to a boy that I loved, and afterwards, that boy was practically snatched out of my arms by the same pervert who tried to rape me mere days later. I never saw the boy I loved again. Never found out what became of him and probably never will. Of course, the only thing that hurts _worse_ than that boy maybe leaving me behind to save his own skin, is the thought that maybe he’s _dead_ because of _me_. Dead because he . . . _loved_ me.

 

“You are . . . open-hearted and kind, loving and earnest, sweet and wonderful. You deserve a better heart than the only one that is mine to give. Assuming I even can. But I’ll try to be what you want, even if I can’t be what you _deserve_. I can’t yet promise you _anything_ other than my sincere and whole-hearted effort to be _better_ than what my life has tried to make of me. For . . . for you, Alistair.”

 

Shining sea-eyes met Geth’s when Alistair leaned back a little, smiling and more than a bit flushed. “That’s . . . so much more than I dared to hope for. That effort. But you’re _already_ what I want and better than _anything_ this sorry world has thrown at you. You’re strong and noble and brave. That’s why . . . that’s why I _love_ you. _Some_ of why, anyway. The rest has to do with how lovely you are and how graceful . . . the way your smile’s sort of crooked and wry, and how dark and bloody endless-deep your _eyes_ are. And did I _mention_ that you are _ridiculously_ gorgeous? All delicate, elfin features and enigmatic gaze? Not to mention that, er, you have a really _nice_ , ah. . . .”

 

“Arse?” Geth finished as Alistair’s big hands fidgeted just above his backside. His brows lifted in question and Alistair flushed.

 

“I was _going_ to say _voice_ , but, well, now that you mention it. . . .”

 

Giggling until he snorted, Geth then moaned into another kiss that Alistair initiated. It was less clumsy, but _more_ impassioned. And Alistair’s hands moved lower slowly, as if to give him time to pull away . . . but Geth merely redoubled his kiss. When Alistair’s hands rested on, then lightly grasped his arse, Geth shivered and sighed, teasing his way out of the kiss to whisper: “It’s . . . okay. _More_ than okay, Alistair, it’s . . . I _like_ it.”

 

“Oh. Good, then,” the other boy exhaled, all chagrin, relief, and daffy-cute charm. “Because you _really_ do have _such_ a very nice . . . _voice_. . . .”

 

“Silver-tongued devil,” Geth accused, his so-called _nice_ voice gone rasping and hoarse from anticipation and desire. The seas that were Alistair’s eyes were hot, lowering maelstroms. “You’ll say _anything_ just to get your hands on my . . . ahem, vocal cords.”

 

“I _am_ a bad, bad man,” Alistair agreed huskily, his grasp on Geth’s arse tightening to a clench as they leaned-in toward each other, once more.

 

#

 

They barely made it to the charitable kitchen in time for supper and, when they finally arrived back at the cottage with their repast, Jowan and Lily took one look at them, shared a look between _themselves_ , then didn’t stop smirking and making sappy eyes, respectively, at Geth and Alistair for the rest of the night.

 

It was truly intolerable to Geth who, despite all that, didn’t let go of Alistair’s hand that whole evening unless he absolutely had to. Alistair, for his part, looked gobsmacked and dazed, smug and proud, and had a habit of staring at Geth to the exclusion of all else.

 

And when everyone lay down for their nightly rest, Lily in her warm-nesty corner, with Jowan between her and the rest of the room, Alistair waited nervously for Geth to settle into his chosen space, not far from Jowan. His eyes were huge, hopeful, and yearning.

 

Geth smiled shyly and held out his hand.

 

Alistair grinned and hopped over Geth’s prone form, dropping to his knees with a grunt, then curling up behind him. He pressed close to Geth’s back, warm and solid and protective, before taking the offered hand and linking their fingers. He hugged Geth back tight against him and kissed his neck. Geth pulled their clasped hands up to his chest, to rest against the steady beat of his over-full heart.

 

“Good night . . . my dear,” Alistair yawned, long and contentedly. Geth, already drifting off, sighed.

 

“Hmm . . . I’m certain it will be.”

 

And then, all was sweet, dim, comfortable silence. Until: “I wuv ‘oo, Alee-poo! Kissy-kissy, heart-eyes!”

 

Geth was startled fully awake once more by the mocking falsetto and, behind him, Alistair tensed up and grumbled.

 

“Oh, shut it, Jowan!” he said, sounding both guiltily pleased and haughtily offended as their friend laughed and laughed—quietly, but laughed, nonetheless. Geth, too, huffed and settled back down.

 

“Sod _off_ , you lanky bag of piss and sniggering!” he snapped, only to get laughed at more.

 

“Is _that_ what Alee-poo’s teachin’ you to do with that clever mouth, Gethrien? _Swear_? Seems a bloody _waste_ that. . . .”

 

“ _Jowan_!” Alistair was blushing so deeply, Geth could practically feel the temperature difference in the already warm face pressed to his neck. He stifled another huff and a blush of his own, and clutched tighter at Alistair’s hand, pressing it to his heart.

 

“ _Good night_ , Jowan,” he said firmly, pointedly, in a tone that brooked no arguments.

 

“Spoilsport, you are,” Jowan muttered. But with a bit of shifting and stretching, yawning and sighing, he, too, was finally still. “Oh, and if you two get up to any, er, _funny business_ in the night, just . . . keep it down, yeah? Need m’ beauty sleep, me.”

 

“Right, then. I’m just going to start ignoring whatever you say between now and morning, Jowan,” Alistair said blithely, but it didn’t hide his continuing annoyance and embarrassment. “Sleep well.”

 

“Fine, fine.” Jowan yawned again. Then said, a minute later: “Ehh. Night, then, lads.”

 

Alistair grunted, a cool, grudging rush of air on Geth’s warm skin, and Geth smiled, already half-asleep. Snuggling happily back into Alistair’s warm embrace, he relaxed completely for the first time in nearly a year, and drifted into a sweet, deep slumber.

 

Also, for the first time in nearly a year, the nightmares kept their distance (scared off in part, probably, by Alistair’s vigorous snoring and fiercely possessive cuddling).

 

And when Geth was startled out of that sound, lovely sleep by a frightened screech just after dawn, he bolted upright out of Alistair’s arms, looking around frantically. Alistair was but a moment behind him, then on his feet in a defensive stance, even though he was still burbling half in sleep-talk.

 

Jowan was standing also, wide-eyed, and staring down at an equally wide-eyed Lily, who was gaping down at her rounded stomach as if it didn’t even belong to her.

 

Then her blue eyes drifted up to Jowan.

 

“My . . . my water just broke,” she said in a breathless, whistling whimper, a small, dazed smile curving her pale lips.

 

“Oh, fucking brilliant!” Jowan moaned, before sagging to the floor in an unconscious puddle of expectant father.

 

For long moments, all the three remaining conscious teens could do was stare at their unconscious peer. Then, they exchanged excited, scared looks.

 

“What do we _do_?” Geth asked, hurrying over to Lily in her nest and kneeling in front of her. When he took her hand, she gripped it tight and almost pleadingly, her face crumpling in sudden discomfort . . . then pain, that made her grit her teeth and groan. Geth turned a helpless gaze on Alistair, who was staring down at them not in fear or dismay, but in . . . resignation. “We . . . can’t . . . she can’t have a baby in this _dump_! It’s not clean, not warm, not— _fuck_ , but we can’t go to hospital or . . . they’ll take the baby away, right? Or put them both in another Home! But . . . the baby _can’t_ be born here! We need doctors and nurses, and . . . oh, Alistair, what do we _do_?”

 

Alistair hung his head for a few moments, before squaring his shoulders and meeting Geth’s teary eyes once more.

 

“You’re going to stay here and keep an eye on Lily and the baby . . . and Jowan. I’m . . . going to . . . find a phone and call someone.”

 

Geth blinked away his tears. “A doctor?” he asked, puzzled and worried out of his normally rational mind. Frankly, he was quite amazed that he wasn’t having a spell. Surprised _and_ _glad_ , as Lily clutched at his hand tight-tight-tight.

 

“No, not . . . not quite,” Alistair said sadly, but smiling—or grimacing—as he turned away after a lingering, yearning gaze that Geth felt in his marrow. “Can you . . . hold down the fort here for the next few minutes?”

 

“What? Yes, I—I suppose, but—why—”

 

“Trust that whatever happens, I only want the best for all of you. That I never meant to . . . to keep this from you, I just . . . I didn’t know how to tell you. And I was afraid you’d. . . .”

 

Shaking his head and falling silent, Alistair strode toward the front door, shoulders slumping and head hanging again.

 

“The ambulance should be here, sharpish. _That’s_ something, at least. When Cailan Theirin says _jump_ , after all, people tend to hop-to, and not ask _how high_ until they’re already in mid-air.”

 

“ _What_?” Geth demanded in a tiny squeak. But Alistair was already gone, the rotting door to the cottage pulled closed behind him, as final as Judgement Day. Blinking and shocked into utter numbness, Geth turned his saucer-wide gaze on Lily’s scrunched-up, sweaty face.

 

Swallowing, he pushed aside Alistair’s crazy non-explanation and disappearance in exchange for focusing on more pressing matters. What on Earth one of the richest, most powerful, and well-connected members of Parliament and likely to be the next Prime Minister—the post had already been held by three of his forebears, including his late father, Maric Theirin—had to do with the price of molasses in winter was beyond him.

 

Though Geth felt a strange tingle of presentiment—of _foreboding_ —at Alistair’s defeated demeanor and last, longing look. As if he was storing up the memory of Geth’s face against a future without the real thing.

 

So, Geth did the only things he _could_ do. He stoically accepted, despite the sudden panic-tightness of his chest and churning of his stomach, the strong possibility that once more, a boy he . . . loved . . . may have just walked out of his life forever. Then, that bitter pill swallowed, he focused all his energy on keeping both himself and his friend calm and breathing.

 

Less than ten eternal minutes later, the siren of an ambulance could be heard wailing in the distance and getting closer _fast_. Jowan was beginning to stir, moaning something about bacon and platypuses.

 

Lily was at the end of her endurance, nearly delirious from pain and still clutching Geth’s numb-beyond-all-feeling hand like it was her only salvation.

 

Alistair _still_ hadn’t returned and . . . and. . . .

 

“Sprog’s impatient to meet her Mummy and Daddy. _And_ her Uncle Geth.” He smiled reassuringly at his frightened friend. When she sobbed out a tiny, shaky laugh, Geth then promised her everything would be alright if she just held on a bit longer.

 

And he _didn’t_ think about Alistair.

 

He didn’t think about _Zevran_ , _either_.

 

But mostly . . . _he didn’t think about Alistair_.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> stitchcasual's Prompt: _Alistair and Surana, each sneakily trying to hold the other's hand and getting all flustered when they actually make contact_
> 
> Scream at me on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com) :-)


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